


LILIES

by greglestrudel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hamish: John - Freeform, Parentlock, This was written for school so I couldn't use their actual names, William: Sherlock - Freeform, mostly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 21:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greglestrudel/pseuds/greglestrudel





	LILIES

Slender feet slipped into brand new socks and all into familiar, worn sneakers. Pulling the cuffs of his trousers over the lip of his shoe, Greyson stood to frown at his uncontrollable auburn curls--an uncanny trait he shared with his adoptive father--in the mirror one last time. He brushed a particularly uncontrollable lock out of his eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling a smile at his reflection. With a bounce, he’s turning the cool door handle and hooking his bright yellow coat over his arm, calling over his shoulder into the flat.

“Going out, be back before dinner!” His voice was small but cheery, having spent most of the year unused. His dads had been very proud of his progress with his speech, which had gone from entirely mute to speaking regularly, though sometimes the words weren’t in a language either of the two elder were fluent in. Small victories, they supposed.

Skipping down the steps and onto the sidewalk, Greyson took a moment to breathe in the city. No matter how long he lived, Grey thought, he would never get tired of having London in his lungs. He peered either way down the narrow street, observing each shop in their right places. Everything how it was supposed to be, just as he liked it. There was really something to regularity.

Though cold, the day was inviting; People laughing and talking and smiling with each other, being wholly and entirely _human_. Grey loved that about people; their inherent humanness. The way they were all so connected but utterly separate. It was fascinating, but Grey had been told many times that staring was rude and a bit creepy, so he tried to keep from lingering too long on one spot or cluster of people. He watched as a mother gave her child a pacifier, and as an elderly couple made their way arm in arm. Up the street a small girl refused to wear her coat, and beyond that a man spoke animatedly into a phone. Grey imagined what the man could’ve been discussing, composing a mental list for himself;

 

  * __Damages to the bike that had been half-heartedly leaned against the stone wall of the building in front of him, tires askew and handlebar nowhere to be seen.__


  * _Marital issues - the man had obviously been on his way to see a side lover judging by the attire and his location; there wasn’t an office within 10 kilometers that required such dress on a Friday. It was highly unlikely the man was planning to bike more than 10 kilometers to his job._


  * _Whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza._



 

Smiling minutely to himself at the last bullet on his list, he decided that particular story had been his favourite and declared the man very passionate about culinary justice before continuing about. He’d picked up those particular skills from home; the deductions from one father and the storytelling from the other. It happened very regularly - so regularly that Grey hardly noticed himself doing it anymore. It was rather a matter of routine, now.

Bouncing absently on the balls of his feet Greyson looked about his street once more, promptly turning and heading in the opposite direction. Today was a good day; he’d seen four yellow cabs in a row. He couldn’t explain quite why this made a day good, but it did. The day would be good, hence his decision to try something new. He had of course been down this direction before, but hardly ever alone. He hadn’t a need to; Most everything he ever needed had him walking to the left of the flat.

As he went on his way he passed a lovely little grouping of flowers, which he took quite a liking to.  He paused to examine them closer. Quite familiar with these flowering greens--quite familiar with almost _all_ flowering greens--Greyson took with utmost delicacy a petal between his thumb and forefinger. Carefully, he took mental notes of the petal’s details:

 

  * __Tear shaped--no, oblong oval. Similar to an American football.__


  * _White, with violet stained centres. Flecks of violet along length._


  * _Outward curvature._



 

Releasing the petal, Greyson examined the flower furthermore:

 

  * __Six stamens - monocot.__


  * _Long leaves; parallel veins._



 

“Lilies,” he muttered quietly to no one in particular. A smile grew on his face as he fished his mobile out of his pocket, quickly stealing a picture before stowing the device away again. _Papa will love that one,_ he thinks. _He always does._

Each step left jagged orange lines dancing in his vision. Something was off, this much he knew. He could always rely on the colours to tell him when something was wrong. _Something,_ he thought, _but what? I closed the door three times until it was yellow and skipped the step where the railing attaches to the wall. What?_ Proceeding slowly, he surveyed his person with an attention soaked glare. _What is it? WHAT?? Bugger off, orange!_ And then, as if apparent, the tangerine lightning bolts lost their rigid form, fading green like a soldier instructed _at ease._ The cautious next step presented pear-green, as did the one after. _Ah. The cracks. Find your stride, string bean._

String bean was a name Greyson’s Papa had given him. Grey was rather fond, enjoying the pale yellow of the words and the lavender glow that accompanied from his Papa when he said it that meant _pride._ Though, if he was truthful, he’d been rather confused the first time he had heard it. He remembered it going something like this:

“Come on, string bean.”

Greyson stared. _??_

“Greyson?”

Blink.

“Greyson? Alright?”

Blink again. Breath.  Then, “What?”

Things like this happened often. Greyson’s dad did things, said things that he was unfamiliar with. Like the time he had said that he felt ill, and his Papa had pressed his lips to Greyson’s forehead to check for a temperature. When Grey asked him about it, he’d said, “No, love. It’s not for patients- only loved ones.” Grey was unsure what exactly classified someone as a ‘loved one,’ but he supposed that was a question to save for sometime else. Or when Grey had explained why it was vital to their relationship that Papa and William both watch _Robin Hood_ with him in order to remind them of the reason they decided to be in love and do sex, and Papa had said, “I beg your pardon?” and Grey was unsure what this meant. Or the time his nose was runny, and his Papa had put a handkerchief to his nose and said, “Blow.”

Hamish was Papa’s real name. He hated it, though Grey thought it was nice. Sturdy, he thought. Just like Papa himself. They sounded nice together, too, in his opinion. _William and Hamish. Papa and William._ It just worked.

Grey made his way to a small coffee shop at the end of their street, being careful to step twice between the cracks of the sidewalk which were filled with a light dusting of snow. Well, a snow-slush hybrid produced by the city which Grey imagined was not very beneficial to the environment and elected to not think about because it made his stomach hurt a bit. He slowed his pace as he approached the cheerful shop, watching as people came and went. Grey had the most peculiar (and to the same token embarrassing) talent to always pull a push door, which his Papa described as _uncanny,_ and Greyson liked this word because it was a very light magenta and shined just so slightly. Upon seeing a broad shouldered man with dark eyes pull the door open and enter, Grey followed suit and found his own place in the queue. He was very much the polar opposite of the man who towered in the queue ahead of him; Small in stature, bright freckles against pasty Welsh skin, boisterous auburn curls in contrast to the tall, dark, black haired man. Absently, Greyson deduced the man, observing the tan line across the ring finger that had a tight hold on the cuff of a long coat that indicated recent marital issues. Work, he presumed, had split them, going by the small earpiece and sleek looking briefcase. Though it seemed unlikely this man was very concerned with romances, and therefore Grey assumed she had left him in a huff, further evidenced by the small cut on the underside of his jaw which could have easily been left by jewelry in a closed fist swing. She - Grey knew it was most likely a woman because of the upward angle the punch had to have been thrown at and the irrationality of such actions -  hadn’t been all that upset with him, though, because she had avoided his nose and teeth. _Someone loves you,_ Grey thought. Even Grey’s clothes were irreconcilable to this man’s. Vivid yellow laces, a bright red coat, and a royal blue hat, topped off with a white pompom. Everything that Greyson was repelled everything this strange stranger was. _Lucky we’re only sharing places in the queue._

The stranger ordered his drink as Grey blinked the sign into focus. He couldn’t help but find the man immensely interesting. The unknown seemed exactly like someone out of one of his William’s case write ups; William was a detective, the best in the business. That’s what Papa said. Grey had heard many of their stories, as per his request. He’d stay awake in the flat downstairs with the landlady, Mrs. H, who was very sweet and old and smelled of vanilla and gave off a small cloud of pink. As soon as he heard the cab stop outside and the door open, he’d give Mrs. H a quick hug goodnight and sprint up the steps to their own flat. He’d pretend to be asleep on the sofa when Papa and William came upstairs so he could be woken up when Papa would kiss his forehead and put a blanket over him, and William would shake his foot. And then he’d sit up, and they’d fall into routine; Papa accounting the day’s adventures in detail while William fell asleep behind Grey, stirring only to correct Papa on the specifics of the case. Though he wished on every star he could go with and help just once, Grey supposed this part was very pleasant.

He wondered how Papa would describe this man. Tall, dark, mysterious - dangerous, perhaps. Strange, out of place. Official. Grey wondered what compelling title he’d give it. _The Strange Man Who Likes His Coffee Black._ He giggled briefly at this, then returning to thought. _No, that’s no good. Not like Papa’s titles at all._ Soon there was a loud snapping and a very effeminate hand in his face, which made him frown deeply as he was quite harshly brought back to attention.

“You gonna order somethin’ or just stand there, pretty boy?” The heavyset woman behind the counter barked at him in a thick accent he identified as Scouse. _Ugly,_ he immediately thought, then, _No, that is rude. It is rude to tell people that they sound-- no, that anything about them is ugly, even when you think that._

“Well then?” The woman chirped again, and Greyson felt his own heartbeat skip. His eyes flicked from the cross cashier to the menu board and then briefly to the dark man and to his own toes - habit. Red, bright red flashed before him, the same way it always did before he felt the suffocating. _Bad,_ was the only thought to come to mind, and then his tongue was swollen and he couldn’t speak. Sounds clashed together into one blaring siren. He might have found comfort in the noise, a constant, a single sound so loud it was equivalent to silence. Only now it was overbearing, incessant, orange and red and brown and dark blue and purple and green.  A heavy hand found itself on his shoulder, pulling him out of the queue and producing horrid orange streaks that vibrated electrically. _Too much._ His limbs were iron clad and endlessly heavy, and he squirmed futilely under the touch. Physical contact made his skin crawl. It was as though his skin melted and fused to his bones in the places where this stranger’s hand met his shoulder, and his opposite arm, and then his back. He huffed out heavy breaths and squeezed his eyes as tightly closed as he could manage. _This was supposed to be a good day._ Grey was sure time had stopped completely, proceeding only as an old frame-by-frame film. Hot impressions of hands boiled on his skin and a firework show presented itself grandly in his view. The unknown man turned him round and took one knee, speaking up at him with a look his Papa would call _concern_. He tried to yell out, to push the man away, to do anything at all, but his senses were flooded and his thoughts were blurred.

Grey, eyes still adamantly shut, did his best to calm himself. _Focus on something good. What is something good that has happened?_ His Papa’s voice rang through his head.   
“Lilies,” he blurted out at the stranger who was still trying to get anything out of him. “Be quiet.” Grey said pointedly, finally wiggling his way out of the man’s reach. He was certain he meant well, but in moments like this he couldn’t control the tone his words came out in. Quickly, a message was tapped out to William, whose conversation had been left at the top of the list.

> lilies. [image attached]

And then another:

> it is loud. strange man. please hurry

Not a minute later, and his phone rang incessantly in his hand. Relieved to see a familiar face, Greyson swiped to answer the video call. _Smart. He is very smart. Yes or no questions._ William’s voice was soothing and gentle, the way it always was when something was wrong.

“Grey? What’s going on?” Grey shook his head. _Words are bad,_ he wanted to say.

“Ah, right. Alright. It’s okay, Grey. Look, see?” William’s face moved out of the frame briefly, and when it reappeared Hamish’s was hovering over his shoulder. “See?”

“Hey, string bean,” Hamish’s voice carried the same calm tone. Greyson wondered if they had to practice that.

Hamish and William spoke to each other quietly for a moment, which mustn’t have been but a minute’s length, but which felt like hours and hours in Grey’s head. And then Hamish turned back to the screen, “Can you send us your live location, kiddo?”

Grey had the app open and his location shared faster than he could say _Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch -_ a Welsh town name he had prided himself in being able to both spell and pronounce by the age of five. This hadn’t been the first time they had to use Google’s handy live location feature. Greyson often found himself off course, distracted by trees or funny looking birds. He was quite familiar with the tool. One click and his physical location had been transferred into one’s and zero’s and sent to his dads on the other end, a process that took less than a minute and that Grey found rather fascinating to think about.

While he waited the thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds for his parents to arrive, Greyson listed all of the prime numbers he knew, which was the first 1’200. He had made it to _971_ before the chime above the door went and familiar faces appeared. He wanted to run to them, to hug them and to let himself be hugged, but his feet were cemented to the floor and he was frozen in place. He thought about undoing his laces, stepping out of his shoes and freeing himself, but by the time he went to move he was already being engulfed by warmth and comforting _vanilla_ scent which was what Papa smelled like. And Grey knew this because often William smelled like this in the mornings too, because they shared a bed. William held his hand out for what is called a _Hand Hug_ which is where Grey puts his fingertips against William’s and this means he loves him.

By the time they’d gotten back to the flat and all settled in for _Robin Hood_ \- Grey’s comfort film and their nightly ritual - it was dark and a calm somber settled over them. Just hardly audible over the sound from the telly, Grey could hear his Papa humming _Blackbird_ by the Beatles. And this meant things were okay.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_


End file.
